Frankly My Dear, I Do Give A Damn
by Twonk
Summary: A complete re-write of my first AIW fic "Unhappy Hats and Drooping Whiskers". The Hatter- Celebrity King of Ponderland- falls into a depressive slump when the rug is pulled under his feet. That rug being the not-so innocent Alice...


**Hey Guys. I'm Twonk and I haven't been on this account for a while (I'd forgotten about it- I have several), and I have recently rediscovered the stories that I wrote months ago. Reading my favourite story from this "author"-_Unhappy Hats and Drooping Whiskers-_I realised that it perhaps had potential, but I wasn't using all of my talents. So, as you do, I decided to go for a full re-write to make myself (if not anybody else) that slightly bit more satisfied. So, if you've read this story before then I hope you enjoy the NEW and IMPROVED version. If you HAVEN'T then I hope you'll find it in your heart to enjoy it anyway. Thanks- Twonkie. **

The Hatter had always been the most interesting character in Ponderland. Despite the fact that Lewis Carroll had positively _annihilated_ his street-cred when the book _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ had been published, Hatter miraculously had managed to ignore all the jeering, laughing, and rotten fruit thrown his way for about six months after the release. Eventually, like any hype, everything eventually died down and Hatter could return to his life as normal. Passing Ponderlanders no longer tried to trip him up in the street, the Duchess no longer saw the charm in her daily attempts of Hatter crucifixion, and best of all, no-one had posted faeces through his letter box for months. It would be too much to say that the Hatter had had the last laugh- but at least life had become more comfortable. That is, if it wasn't for Alice.

Despite popular belief (thanks to Lewis Carroll- a mathematician, that having been fortunate enough to visit Ponderland and escape with his life, then decided to write an entirely fictional book about his adventures) the Mad Hatter was not some hyperactive geriatric with a fetish for tea. He was in fact, somewhat of a Ponderland celebrity. Being blessed with the extreme good looks of a top Hollywood actor, Hatter used his potential to the full - posing for magazines, giving interviews, and occasionally, if money was particularly short that month, he would 'rent' himself out. This didn't happen too often - a man has his pride- but if it was a time of what he liked to call 'a chance to hire Ponderland's best catch', he was in high demand. Men and women alike for miles around were desperate to have an intimate encounter with the one that sent their hearts a-flutter, and his prices weren't too steep. As it were, by the time he was twenty five (the age he was now) almost every unimportant Ponderlander had slept with the Hatter at least twice. The novelty was wearing off, and bored citizens needed a fresh distraction. The book was the perfect diversion. It almost ruined the Hatter's life.

He couldn't understand why people chose to believe such lies. Alice was not seven when she found this world, but twenty one. She had not followed the White Rabbit down an oversized rabbit hole- the White Rabbit was a grumpy bugger that would have not taken to being stalked too kindly. The last creature that had attempted to follow him (a rather hungry cat), had been threatened at knife point, then tied to a tree. From then on, everybody kept clear. He was the Queen of Ponderland's body guard, and he made sure that anybody who referred to him as 'cute' did not live to see the next day. He was also extremely good at his job, and the Queen valued him beyond anything else.

No, Alice had come to Ponderland entirely intentionally. Feeling that her world was 'not quite what she was looking for in life', Alice on impulse, went to her nearest Thomas Cook and asked the agent for a ticket to anything under Alternate Universe. Unfortunately, Hogwarts was full, as was Narnia. She was left with two options: Ponderland or Hell. After much thought, Alice finally decided on Hell, and soon was disappointingly told that the Devil had decided not to open anymore vacancies to the living. Not desperate to commit suicide, Ponderland it was. It was only inevitable that she should meet the Hatter, celebrity that he was, and it was also inevitable that they, being at such an impressionable age, should develop feelings for each other. Alice, because she was bored and looking for a quick fling, the Hatter, because he had fallen in love with her instantly.

He couldn't understand it. Why wasn't Ponderland inhabited by such desirable creatures? To him, Alice was literally a goddess. Not being the kind of man to be able to see past looks, he did not notice her bitchiness, snobbery, or distinct lack of affection for him until the very end. By then it had been too late. Alice had left him for someone else, and Hatter's heart was in tatters.

He told Carroll this, perhaps giving details on their sex life a little too extensively. Red faced, Carroll had coughed throughout, until Hatter finally told him he could have a cough sweet, or his arse kicked. Not fancying either option too much- cough sweets in Wonderland went under such flavours as 'dandelion and vodka' or 'snail and sangria' – Carroll shut up and listened to the Hatter the best he could.

Much to Hatter's annoyance, Carroll seemed to be far more interested in Alice than in him. He couldn't understand it. He was the victim, the one that had been crushed and unlikely to ever bounce back. Alice was the villain, the evil beldam that had stolen his heart. Although Carroll listened sympathetically enough- well, he nodded, which was surprisingly soothing- Hatter couldn't shake off the feeling that he wasn't really concerned about him at all. Frustrated, The Hatter vainly tried to make Alice seem more of a cow than she actually was, but to no avail. Lewis Carroll published his scribbles, making Alice into the sweet seven year old heroine, and Hatter had to be content with a fleeting reference here and there.

Ponderlanders teased him mercilessly. He being such a star, they would have expected him to be the hero, and perhaps Alice the wailing heroine. That was what he would have _liked._ Instead he was creepy- some psycho that gave the book a distinctly sinister edge. And he had _never_ told Alice to have a haircut! He liked it just the way it was. Who he thought before as friends, suddenly became distant. People were calling him the "Mad Hatter" behind his back. When Ponderland got the wind that in the book, Alice was seven, he actually had to attend court and plead against the charges of paedophilia.

"It was just a book, your Highness!"

"Is it true that you have been having an affair with a mere _child?"_

The crowd booed and hissed in disgust.

"You all know Alice. She is no child."

"But the book clearly says…"

"The book also says that our world is called Wonderland. Do you believe everything you read?"

Luckily for him, The Hatter had won. This, by all means, did not stop the Ponderlanders. Hatter couldn't even buy tea bags without somebody first taking the piss, stealing whatever he had bought, then finally assaulting him- a good kick in the head proved the most common. The triple insult. It wasn't surprising that Hatter had steeped into severe depression.

So here he was, six months on. Hatter no longer bothered to leave the house, preferring to sit in the garden, drinking tea and rocking to and fro with the air of one mentally deranged. Ironic really. At first, his two best friends, March Hare and the Dormouse, tried to shake him out of his depression using several methods- forcing on him psychoactive drugs, giving him a coupon for a free lobotomy, buying him expensive presents. They may as well not have bothered. Hatter's black mood wouldn't budge. Eventually, like any good friend, they gave up. There was only so much you could do.

And Hatter sat there, day in, month out, allowing himself to go completely to seed. He blamed Lewis Carroll. Carroll apologised, and blamed Alice. Alice blamed Thomas Cook. It was a vicious line, one that probably would never end- everybody likes to blame somebody else. So here he was. Precariously, Hatter made himself another cup of tea. He hadn't moved for three days, not even to go to the loo, or get more food. If he carried on like this, he'd die. To be honest, he didn't really care.

"Hellooooooo!"

A sudden chirpy cry shook Hatter out of his stupor. He looked up from his beverage, his eyes half closed with a mixture of sleepiness and suspicion. Who dared to sound so cheery, when he felt so awful? If he could only get out of this chair, he would send them packing. Uselessly, he tried to pull himself up. As it was, it just sounded like he was trying to lift an enormously heavy weight, and his arms flopped to his sides in exhaustion. Everything was far too much effort.

"Yoo hoo! Hattie!"

He recognised that voice. Marchie, his 'best friend' that hadn't bothered to visit him for at least three months. Sure, he hadn't got his ass over to his place either, but that was to be expected. He was _damaged_. "Bugger off!" Hatter tried to roar, but his voice was far too weak. Instead, he gave a mouse-like squeal, that if Marchie heard, he ignored. Flinging open the gate, the Hare sat down next to his pal.

"Alright?" In a fairly recent effort to be 'cool', Hare had stopped wearing his usual red dinner jacket and bow tie, and instead had opted for a black leather 'Matrix' coat, a huge (and very unflattering) pair of sunglasses, and finally, to top it off, a black velvet beret with 'chic' spelt across it in purple sequins. He looked ridiculous.

Hatter didn't bother to look up from his bread and butter. He wasn't even going to give a reply, but a savage dig in the ribs reminded him that, if he wanted to be, the Mare Hare was a violent cretin who had never quite rejected the thought of complete Ponderland domination. Trying to keep the irritation from his voice, he gave his response. "Yeah, I'm fine." Deliberately, he dropped half of his tea down his lap. If the March Hare thought he was mad, he may as well back it up with evidence. The tea was hot, and he struggled not to scream. Blisters began to form on his thighs- evil bastards, rich with fluid. As a treat, he could pop them later… if it wasn't too much work.

The March Hare watched his old companion, suppressing a shriek of pure frustration and opting just to sigh instead. As casual as it was possible to be under the infuriating circumstances, he drew a small lighter out of his pocket, along with a packet of Superking cigarettes. He was going to chain smoke all of them, then make his excuses and go on the razz. Bring on the Hangovers! He couldn't wait for the nausea, the headaches and excessive perspiration. Hanging out with the Hatter made him feel like that.

Resisting the urge to grab five at once, Hare placed the delicious cancer-inducing tobacco roll in his mouth, and lit it. He noticed that Hatter was staring at him. "Want one?" He inquired, expecting a decline. To his surprise, Hatter snatched one, smoked it in three deep drags, then grabbed another. "When did _you _start smoking?" Hare asked, surprised.

"Dunno," Hatter said, painfully monosyllabic as usual. March Hare left it. He really couldn't be arsed.

And then began the silence so dense, that the Hare could have cut it with his own butterknife, crumbs of not.

For the fifth time in five minutes, the March Hare checked his watch. Very Ponderlandian, the timepiece was in the shape of a rabbit's head, with fake blood dripping out of the neck. More messy than useful, these watches had been a huge hit. It was as close as anybody got to seeing the White Rabbit dead. Six o'clock. Time for tea. Should he say something, or do what he should have done an hour ago, and just go home? Hare was sorely tempted to commit homicide. He had tried _everything_ and nothing ever seemed good enough. In the first few months, Hare had really tried. He had brought Hatter countless cakes, large jars of his favourite jam, sang Hatter his favourite songs, and had even happy slapped the Dormouse in effort to make him smile. Nothing. In a final desperate attempt, Hare used up all his savings and bought his friend a new pocket watch, inlaid with moonstones and blue diamond… that included a free novelty cockerel alarm system. Undoubtedly annoying, but the thought was _there. _What did he get for his trouble? Sweet FA- just a mumbled 'thanks', and a half hearted (though extremely patronising) pat on the head.

In an effort to make life interesting, Hare had turned towards the comfort of human fashion magazines. Now addicted to _Cosmopolitan, Glamour, _and Gok Wan's regular article in _The Times_, Hare thought his of his old life like a person looked at their favourite teddy bear. Good while it lasted, but now he'd grown out of it. So why couldn't Hatter do the same? Something had to be done- before years of friendship went truly down the rabbit hole.

Expecting the worst, March Hare began his speech. He wished he had prepared it earlier, but life wasn't a _Blue Peter_ programme, for God's sake. He'd just have to try his best. "Mate," he said awkwardly, avoiding the Hatter's gaze. "I fink we need to talk."

Inwardly, Hatter groaned. Marchie's hip-hop claptrap was a guaranteed way to encourage a coma, or homicidal tendencies, never mind becoming a cure. Before recently, Marchie's vocabulary had well exceeded genius level- he had even managed to use the word 'antiestablishmentism' in an everyday conversation discussing what he wanted for breakfast. Now, he was down to practically three words, consisting of 'mate', 'innit', and 'safe'. It was enough to drive a Hatter mad! Though, he admitted, it was a bit too late in the day to complain about _that_.

"Mate," March Hare repeated, becoming more uncomfortable by the second. He didn't like the way that Hatter's eye was twitching. "You need to get over this Alice chick. Sure she was beautiful, with her locks all golden and stuff, and her figure was well hot- and yeah she was real smart and wicked. But come on! Sometimes she was well up her own ass. Innit." He noticed with growing trepidation, that Hatter's eye had gone into overdrive. He was gonna blow. Aware that he could get seriously hurt, March Hare tried to leg it- or at least move out of punching range. Too late. Hatter upended his tea cup over his head. Blinking furiously, the Hare wiped the thankfully lukewarm beverage out of his eyes- only to jump three feet in the air when he saw Hatter's crazed face less than a centimetre away from his own.

"Go away." Hatter's voice was surprisingly calm- but only if calm meant mentally deranged. Hare decided (stupidly), to try and reason with him.

"But mate-"

"GO AWAY!" Hatter's voice suddenly became a top candidate in attempting to break the sound barrier. Showing the first sign of true life in months, Hatter leapt to his feet- thanking the Lord that his daily intake of margarine (butter was expensive for the unemployed) had stopped him getting rickets. His tall frame towered over the March Hare, who was looking like that a passing toilet would come in quite useful. "If I wanted your advice, I would ask for it!" the Hatter yelled, trying to succeed in the inviting goal of making Marchie crap himself. "And that _ridiculous_ beret you're wearing! It's trilbies that are in! Do you know _anything_?" Despite being blessed with godlike handsomeness, Hatter had never been the brightest button in the box. What he viewed as a killer insult, others regarded as mere playground banter. However, March Hare knew that he was aiming to hurt, and this upset him. His bottom lip began to quiver. Hatter, (wrongly) congratulating himself for his razor sharp tongue, carried on:

"And that STUPID leather jacket! You look like a wannabe Keano Reeves impersonator!" That, if nothing else, was a great slur indeed. Keano Reeve's films had been voted by Ponderlanders to be the some of the worst made in movie history- coming second only to the "Carry On" bunch. Filled with crude humour, old men, and aging tarts in short skirts, _Carry on Camping_ was enough to turn any Ponderlander's stomach. However, such films came in useful when one was throwing a Ancient Rome themed party. To assist the messy deeds in the vomitorium, _Carry on up the Khyber_ would be shown in every cubicle. Random guests could go in, puke, then happily stuff themselves afterwards two or three times over. Not only did this make parties a hell of a lot more fun, it also kept every socially outgoing Ponderlander very slim. Keano Reeves films however… they were just plain _dull._ In Ponderland, a world stuffed with distinct over-active imaginations, Keano Reeves had all the screen presence of a dead horse. Students who saw the Media syllabus for A Level, immediately grew faint hearted, and opted for something far more stimulating, such as bio quantum nuclear physics. To be compared to Keano Reeves was not an insult to be taken lightly- people had been driven to drink for less. But March Hare decided to take it into his stride.

He stood up, no longer the trembling wreck he had been five seconds previously. "How did you guess?" His voice was not malicious, just contained polite interest. The Hatter was stunned.

"What?" He said, aloud.

"I _said_ how did you guess?" March Hare smiled a slightly manic, definitely caffeine induced smile. Hatter's shoulders sank with relief.

"Did you get your hands on Red Bull again? Because the Queen said that if you drink anymore, she WILL ban it. You know…"

The March Hare held up a sophisticated paw. "Nope. No Red Bull. Maybe a bit of coke though. Diet." He grimaced for a second, obviously remembering his extensive dental work from too many carbonated drinks. Then he smiled. "Yes Hattie, you've got it in one. I'm a Keano Reeves impersonator, and I also find pole-dancing surprisingly invigorating."

Hatter projectile spat a mouthful of cake right into Marchie's face. Wincing, the Hare wiped it from his whiskers.

"POLE-DANCING?" The Hatter gasped, astounded. "Since when?"

"It's always been my secret passion," Hare said, successfully avoiding the question. "I regularly dance at the TwinkleTitts Club."

"REALLY?" Hatter's mouth was hanging so far open, Marchie reckoned he could have crammed an entire loaf of bread in it's depths, still with space to spare.

"Oh yeah." The Hare gave a casual shrug. "And it's surprising how popular Keano Reeves is getting."

"But…" Hatter was struggling to get his thoughts together. "You look nothing like him!"

"Precisely." Marchie had stopped listening, bored of such tedious prattle. "Look, I have to go, I'm meeting the White Rabbit in half an hour."

Surprises were coming too fast for the Hatter, and his lower than average brain was already feeling the pressure. "The White Rabbit?" he repeated- an irritating parrot tendency he had picked up from his mother- "Why?"

Hare thought fast. "He's my manager."

Hatter's chin was collecting numerous grass stains from scraping along the floor. "Really?" He asked again, rather moronically.

"_Yes." _Marchie 'checked' his watch. "In fact…" he made his way towards the gate, the Hatter following him like some lost idiot. "…I have to go. I have a pretty big gig at TwinkleTitts in half an hour."

"Really?"

Marchie was going to lose his temper. The original novelty of shaking the Hatter out of his stupor was beginning to lose it's charm, and instead he had begun to find everything rather annoying. That, and the fact that he had told so many lies he had lost track. "Yes," he said, an irate tone creeping in. "_Really._ I'll see you later."

With that the March Hare left, leaving Hatter hanging onto his garden fence like some drunkard that has been told some surprising- and not entirely pleasant news. It wasn't that far from the truth. Hatter, throughout his life (so far-remember he was only twenty five) had battled with everything from drink problems to generating too much testosterone. The latter, in a way, had been worse than the alcoholism. If you're constantly pissed, people eventually accept that you're basically a good fellow with a great weakness. However, if you're found constantly shaving in public, your voice is one minute ridiculously high, the next scarily low, and your body tends to act embarrassingly whenever you catch sight of a half attractive person, people think you're weird, or worse, a pervert. It had been a long battle, but thanks to help of several doctors (excluding the one from Kazakhstan, that after finding out he spoke no English, Hatter eventually discovered he was not a doctor at all, but a vet) Hatter had finally beaten his demons. He even wrote an autobiography- _Me, My Hair, and I._ It had done phenomenally well for the first week or so, but when Ponderlanders realised that the Hatter was in fact illiterate, sales had dropped dramatically. Hatter was turning into a nobody. And he had to face up to it.

Shakily, he walked back over to his chair, still in complete shock. Marchie, his nearest and dearest, was not only a Keano Reeves impersonator, but a professional pole-dancer that performed in the classy TwinkleTitts Club. He had found a decent path in life, whilst he, Hatter, was stuck in a chair, drinking himself to death. He'd have to do something about that. In fact, he'd start tomorrow. Lifting his hat, he took out the concealed bottle of vodka, and added a liberal amount to his second cup of tea. Sometimes, he really wondered what W…Ponderland was coming to.

**If any of you are disappointed that the March Hare isn't pretending to be gay, then guess what, I am too. But my beta reader (aka my mum) said that this was a "disgusting and shameful stereotype of homosexuals". Being asexual myself, I decided to change the situation a bit and not be so darn "stereotypical". Sorry guys- Twonkie. **


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